


Variations on Hairstyles

by iriswallpaper



Series: Variations Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusers want total control over their partner, Control Issues, Dark John, Domestic Violence, Domestic violence is a control issue, During Variations on Happily Ever After, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gaslighting, M/M, Physical Abuse, Post Mary, Relationship violence, Sherlock's Hair, Verbal Abuse, post-HLV, sherlock really loves john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place sometime around Chapter 5 of <em>Variations On Happily Ever After</em>. John has been fired from his job at the surgery and is working full time with Sherlock. </p><p> </p><p> If you haven't read <em>Variations On Happily Ever After</em>, this fic will not make sense to you.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations on Hairstyles

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed so please excuse my mistakes and feel free to point them out to me.
> 
>  
> 
> Domestic violence is a control issue. Abusers want total control over their partner. Violence is used as a means of control, and abusers use lightning fast mood changes - from abusive to loving - to further keep their victims off balance.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Domestic violence, gaslighting, verbal abuse

Sherlock rubbed the back of his head: his hair rose and smoothed with each stroke of his hand like the nap of luxurious velvet. He grinned when he glimpsed his reflection in a storefront window. It had been nearly two decades since he’d worn his hair so short. 

Not since the time when Mycroft thought sending him to a military school in America would help curb his cocaine use. Part of the intake process at the ridiculously expensive school had been to fit him with a navy blue and gold quasi-military uniform and clipper cut his hair to an eighth of an inch. 

The haircut had been hateful and the uniform itched but in the end the joke was on Mycroft. The other delinquents also sent to military school by desperate families had taught Sherlock tricks he would have never thought up on his own. And 250 boys between the ages of 13 and 18, locked away at a school in western Connecticut, all of whom would have had criminal records if their families had not had the money and connections to get their indiscretions discharged, together had quite a bag of tricks to trade. Alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, sex, pornography - everything was available for a price. 

Sherlock had quickly deduced that his looks and skillful mouth could get him both stimulants and depressants. He’d put those skills to work, enjoyed every minute of it, and gone home at the end of the term a cocaine addict. He’d arrived at the military school a heavy user of recreational drugs - the ten months he’d spent there had fanned the flames into full blown addiction.

When he finally got back home to England, he’d grown out his hair quite long to spite his tight-laced brother. Later it became a moot point when his family cut off his generous allowance and he drifted from one flop house to another, going where he could trade his skills for a fix, not caring what his hair looked like as long as he was high.

Then later, once he invented his profession, the long curls became his trademarks - along with his Belstaff. (And maybe just a _tiny_ bit of rebellion at his brother’s continued controlling grip on his life, too.) Even later, his blogger-turned-partner delighted in running his hands through the thick mess, tugging and teasing when Sherlock knelt between his knees. 

But Sherlock felt that his fast-approaching 43rd birthday was a good occasion for a new look. A few strands of silver had appeared at his temples over the past few months. He took that as a sign that a more sober hairstyle was in order. 

And now, fresh from the barber, his shorn and pomaded hair slicked straight back from his forehead, Sherlock felt like a new man. Fresh, unbound, unfettered from his past indiscretions. He’d been clean for years - it was finally time to look like it. 

Bursting through the front door at Baker Street, Sherlock bounded up the stairs like a teenager in his eagerness to show John his new ‘do. The door to the flat stood open, as always, so he entered with a swirl of coat and ripped off his scarf in a ‘big reveal’ motion. 

John was stood at the kitchen counter. He turned at the sound of Sherlock’s arrival. Sherlock couldn’t contain the grin that spread over his features. “What do you think?”

John’s expression changed as fast as a late summer thunderstorm. A glower darkened his features and dulled his eyes. “What do I think? What do _I_ think? Why are you even bothering to ask now?” John’s hands fisted at his sides. “Did it ever occur to you to ask _what I think_ before you do something stupid?”

Sherlock hung his coat on its hook, turning to hide his face as he rolled his eyes at John’s response. “I got a haircut. I’d hardly call that stupid.” He crossed the room and dropped himself into his chair, not even bothering to take off his shoes before folding his legs up underneath himself.

Eyes closed, John drew in two long breaths through his nose. His lips were pressed into a line so flat, Sherlock could no longer see any of the smooth mauve lips he loved. John opened his eyes and stalked into the living room, stopping in front of Sherlock. “You are Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. You aren’t just a man any longer. Sherlock Holmes is a _brand_.” John said in the lethally calm voice he used when especially upset. “Your brand. _Our_ brand. Sherlock Holmes wears a big coat. Sherlock Holmes wears nice suits. And Sherlock Holmes has _long, curly hair_!” John loomed over Sherlock as he shouted the last three words.

Straightening in his chair and unfolding his legs, Sherlock regarded his partner cooley. “People seek out Sherlock Holmes for my _brain_ , my reasoning. Not for the way I look. And certainly not for my hair.”

John scowled and flexed his left hand before he replied. “When we walk down a street, people recognize you. They whisper to each other - there goes Sherlock Holmes, the detective. They know you because they know what you _fucking look like_! _And now you don’t fucking look like Sherlock Holmes_!” John strode to the coat hooks and ripped down Sherlock’s deerstalker then marched back to face Sherlock. “Here,” he spat, throwing the hat against Sherlock’s chest with savage force, “wear the hat.”

Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Sherlock sat the hat on the arm of his chair. He spoke with deadly calm. “I will cut my hair however I wish. I will wear whatever headwear I chose. And I will not listen to one more word of this.” He stood, brushed past John and rushed to the bathroom with John following close behind. When he tried to shut the door behind himself, John grabbed the outer doorknob and pushed it open roughly.

“You goddamned _idiot_. It’s not just _you_ any more. Sherlock Holmes is bigger than just _you_. Sherlock Holmes is _us_ now. It’s the _only_ jobI have!”

Sherlock turned in the doorway and faced John chest-to-chest. “My getting a haircut doesn’t endanger your income. Just stop. Now.”

Grabbing Sherlock’s arms, John shouted up into his face. “It’s not just my income, you cock. It’s our income. It’s our job now, not just yours.”

“Everything I have is yours, John. You never have to worry about money.” Sherlock spoke soothingly, his voice low.

“You _stupid_ prick! That’s not the point.” John dropped his grip and stepped back half a step, cocked his arm and threw a right hook to Sherlock’s upper arm. Sherlock stumbled back against the sink with John right behind. Spittle flew from John’s lips as he grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and drew him down to eye level. “ _You should have asked me first!_ ”

The edge of the sink dug into Sherlock’s sacrum where John pressed his weight against Sherlock’s body, pinning him to the sink. “ _What the hell were you doing going off half cocked!”_ He shook the hand still brutally grasping Sherlock’s nape, causing Sherlock’s head to snap backward. 

“Okay, okay. John. I will,” Sherlock gasped. 

With a final shake of Sherlock’s neck, John stepped back. His demeanor instantly changed into one of concern. “Here, c’mere,” he murmured as he drew Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock propped his chin on John’s shoulder and shut his eyes tightly, enjoying the closeness of John’s embrace in spite of the pain throbbing through his arm and everything that had transpired.

“I just want what’s best for you. For us,” John murmured as he brushed his hands up and down Sherlock’s back. “You know I think you're brilliant. I just want everyone to have the chance to see it, too. So people need to recognize you when you go out.”

Mouth turning down at the corners, Sherlock just nodded against John’s shoulder, too overwhelmed by the alarm blaring in his mind palace to reply.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are in a violent or unsafe situation, I urge you to visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline at www.thehotline.org and call them at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). Love should not hurt.


End file.
